


Sweet Dreams

by summerofspock



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crowley's Century-Long Nap (Good Omens), Good Omens: Lockdown, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Quarantine Video, Unhappy Ending, sad wanks, the author questions why they are like this, two wanks for the price of one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23949913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: Crowley had always imagined Aziraphale's kisses would taste like cake. Of course they would. He’d slip his tongue into Crowley’s mouth and make that delighted noise he always did when tasting something sweet and new and surprising.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 63
Kudos: 349
Collections: Good Omens Lockdown fics





	Sweet Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darcylindbergh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darcylindbergh/gifts).



> this fic is for darcy in that she mentioned that she always thought that the line in the book about Crowley taking a century long nap and getting up to use the bathroom meant that he got up to wank. Then that idea got twisted up in the lockdown video and here we are.

Crowley is utterly relaxed. He's pillowed in his luxurious mahogany four poster bed, nestled into layers of blankets, ready for a nap that will last however long it takes for these feelings to go away.

_Fraternize._

_The feeling is mutual._

Crowley's heart seethes in his chest. He can't think about it or he’ll never get to sleep.

He pushes it all away, stuffs it down alongside every other memory of Aziraphale insisting they aren't friends, that he doesn't like Crowley. Those memories are few and far between, but each one has stung enough that Crowley has to push them away lest they dig deeper into his pathetic heart where they will wound and fester.

He thinks instead on warm days by the river. The steady rush of water. The heat of summer sun. 

He's just drifting off when the bedroom door slams open and he hears the stomp of angelic feet. A rhythm so familiar it might as well be the beat of his own heart.

He sits up hastily, the blankets falling down around his lap. He sleeps nude. Always has. Aziraphale clearly didn't know that because he freezes in the doorway, eyes raking over Crowley's chest.

It sparks a fire in Crowley's gut to be looked at like that. Oh, who is he kidding? It's a whole damn blaze. A fucking bonfire.

Aziraphale has never looked at him like that. With such obvious appreciation.

Aziraphale seems to recover himself, a scowl descending on his face. "Were you just going to disappear?"

Crowley scrubs a hand over his face and idly wishes for his shaded lenses. "What do you care if I take a nap?"

"I was worried!" Aziraphale insists. "I sent you several notes. I wanted to talk."

"What? So you could lord your position over me? Call me a foul demon and turn your nose up? No thanks," Crowley sneers. He's starting to feel very vulnerable indeed. His skin tingles under Aziraphale's gaze. The angel is buttoned up as always. Layer after layer. Pretty velvet armor. Just like Aziraphale really to protect himself with something so soft.

"I wouldn't say that," Aziraphale says quietly, drawing closer to the bed.

Crowley's pulse jumps as Aziraphale brushes his fingers over the back of Crowley's hand.

"I’d apologize," Aziraphale says. "I’d -" he breaks off, eyes flickering over Crowley's face. How has Crowley ever resisted the urge to kiss him?

"I'd make it up to you."

Crowley doesn't know who moves first, all he knows is that there is an angel in his lap, warm and heavy and Aziraphale is kissing him. He tastes like cake and Crowley wonders if he's come from some sort of shop where he nibbled on treats before coming to visit him. To apologize.

Aziraphale moans into his mouth, bearing him back against the bed and straddling him. It's so good. Better than Crowley could have imagined. He wants to feel Aziraphale's skin, feel his warmth, know this is real.

He runs his hands up under Aziraphale’s coat, toying with the back of his waistcoat and wondering if he should miracle it all off. He doesn’t want to pull away. If he pulls away, Aziraphale might change his mind. He might rip away, looking horrified. Crowley isn’t sure he could survive it.

Aziraphale is kissing his neck now, rocking his hips down against Crowley like he can't stop himself. Crowley presses up into him, seeking more contact. The hard line of Aziraphale’s arousal brushes against Crowley’s cock and it’s like lightning, painful and glorious.

Then Aziraphale kisses his jaw, working up to the delicate shell of his ear and making him shiver. But it doesn’t feel good. The goosebumps that rise on his skin feel like panic. He’s trapped.

“Did you really think I’d forgive you?” Aziraphale says into his ear and Crowley’s stomach drops. Aziraphale is still grinding down against him, but the blissful arousal from before is twisting into something sickly.

“You’re despicable. I’d never want you,” Aziraphale hisses. Crowley tries to push him off. Why is Aziraphale saying these things? He’d never say these things. Not even if he felt them. He says careless things but he’s never cruel.

Aziraphale adds, breath hot on Crowley’s ear, “You’re unforgivable.”

And Crowley wakes up.

There are tears, shameful and hot and he furiously scrubs at his eyes. A dream. Of course. Aziraphale would never…

He would never do any of that. Not kiss him. Not whisper horrid things. No matter what Crowley fears, Aziraphale is kind and generous and that’s why Crowley loves him.

This is exactly what he went to sleep to avoid. This putrid, dark feeling coating his insides like tar. Guilt and shame are twisting through him as he realizes he’s still hard, still leaking against his belly.

He should go back to sleep but he can still feel the phantom weight of Aziraphale in his lap. It had felt so real. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to fantasize about sinking inside Aziraphale’s body. Crowley had imagined his kisses would taste like cake. Of course they would. He’d slip his tongue into Crowley’s mouth and make that delighted noise he always did when tasting something sweet and new and surprising.

Crowley realizes he’s palming himself through the sheets and yanks his hand away. He stares at the dark ceiling. Morning light is filtering through the slit in the curtains and Crowley can hear birds chirping outside the window. It’s bright and cheerful and all it does is make Crowley sink further into the bed and wish to disappear.

He’s going to do this, isn’t he? Pathetic and terrible and shameful.

He slips his hand under the sheet and takes himself in hand, immediately arching up into the touch. How long has he been asleep? It feels like he hasn’t been touched in decades.

Eyes shut, he returns to his dream. Aziraphale is on top of him, kissing him, touching his bare chest. Except, now Aziraphale is naked too and Crowley can touch all of him. He could kiss his neck and down his chest, roll them over and slot easily between Aziraphale’s beautiful thighs. He’d grip them tight and haul them around his waist, sink his hands into them, feel his body hair and his stretch marks, every unique texture as they moved together.

He miracles his hand slick and groans. What would Aziraphale’s cock look like? He could slide against it. Take both of them in hand and move until Aziraphale came apart beneath him, moaning and saying his name and --

Crowley’s whole body lights up as his muscles lock and he spills over his hand, hot and sticky and embarrassing.

Even as the languorous pleasure of his release steals over him, shame creeps back into his thoughts. Wanking over his friend. His only friend.

His eyes sting as he gets out of bed, stumbling into the washroom to scrub his hands and face clean.

Aziraphale is angry with him. For who knows how long.

He doesn’t want to think about it so he goes back to bed.

* * *

_2020_

“Goodnight, angel,” Crowley says softly before hanging up the phone. He supposes he should have expected that response. _Against the rules_.

It stings a bit. Not as much as it once would but it still strikes at that place Crowley has stored all of Aziraphale’s harsh words. The place where he hides them away, to be taken out only when he needs a reminder of why he shouldn’t feel so much for the angel.

Things are better now between them. Aziraphale admits they are friends. They are on the same side. Together.

It’s still not what Crowley’s thought about for millennia now, but he likes it. He’s happy enough. If only his chest would ache less when he’s alone.

He hasn’t taken a month-long nap in a long time. Ever since the 19th century he’s tried to avoid oversleeping. He never wants to relive that awful dream, shamefully touching himself beneath the covers while he imagines angel kisses that taste of cake.

And right now, Aziraphale is surrounded by the stuff. Probably taking small bites of each treat. He sounded so proud on the phone. He probably slips tiny forkfuls into his mouth, those peach lips parting on a small sound of pleasure.

Crowley slams his cell phone down on his desk and growls in useless irritation. The ache is starting up again, low in his gut. He shouldn’t and yet he knows exactly how this will end.

Frustrated - with himself, with Aziraphale - he tears off his clothes as he stomps into the bathroom, snapping on the shower. He’s already hard when the warm spray hits his chest. Take the edge off, he tells himself. Then you won’t get those dreams.

He wraps a hand around himself as the water streams over his scalp, slicking his hair down to his forehead. He thinks about how excited Aziraphale sounded on the phone, the hitch in his voice when Crowley offered to come over.

He clutches the shower wall with one hand as he pictures showing up at the bookshop anyway, pushing inside and grabbing Aziraphale by the lapels like he’s wanted to ever since he took to wearing that velvet waistcoat. He’d taste like angel cake and he’d moan into Crowley’s mouth. This Aziraphale in his fantasies always wants him desperately. His hands are in Crowley’s trousers before they even part to catch their breath.

Aziraphale whispers, “I’ve been waiting for you,” before finally touching him. His hands are clever. Clever as Crowley always thought they’d be.

The water is hot on Crowley’s back as he speeds up his movements, picturing the soft feel of Aziraphale’s pudgy fingers, manicured and pretty. So pretty. Looking even better wrapped around his cock.

Crowley’s spine curls with shame and pleasure as his orgasm punches out of him. He gasps and sags against the wall, spilling over his hand. The water washes it away. Down the drain.

Crowley squeezes his eyes shut. It doesn’t matter. Another year. Another thousand years. He’s going to feel this way.

He will sit and watch Aziraphale eat his cakes. He will slouch across the park just to listen to his stories, even the ones he’s heard before. He will show up at Aziraphale’s door over and over again until Aziraphale tells him to go. It’s how he was made, he thinks, to love Aziraphale.

He lets his forehead rest against the black tile wall and takes a deep breath before shutting off the shower.

He’ll go to bed. He’ll sleep. And when he wakes up, their relationship will be the same as it ever was. Phone calls and dinners and late nights. And nothing more.

Never anything more.

**Author's Note:**

> if, by the end of this, you need a sweet palate cleanser, I highly recommend darcy's own [quarantine fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23948080). it is a delight


End file.
